


Of Blood, Flesh and Skin

by The_Spaghetti_Incident



Category: Naruto
Genre: Blood and Violence, Brother/Sister Incest, F/M, Incest, Sibling Incest, sandcest
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-19
Updated: 2020-04-19
Packaged: 2021-03-01 18:55:56
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,942
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23741911
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/The_Spaghetti_Incident/pseuds/The_Spaghetti_Incident
Summary: Gaara was nothing, and his sister was everything – everything he wasn’t. When he notices her, he decides to make a nothing out of her too, and destroy her to rebuild him. Non-con! GaaTema!
Relationships: Gaara & Temari (Naruto), Gaara/Temari (Naruto)
Comments: 2
Kudos: 7





	Of Blood, Flesh and Skin

**Author's Note:**

> Warning: Non-graphic description of rape and acts of cannibalism.
> 
> Also, slightly badly written, but don't worry, like my other stories, I plan on coming back to edit this and make it better.
> 
> This is also on my FF acount.

It had happened ever so naturally.

Gaara's cold, pale hand touched the trembling skin and he relished at the reaction he got when it crawled under his palm. She felt scalding and the sensation seemed to spread over to him at the contact.

He himself hadn't even noticed the first signs of his own sudden interest. Temari had, though – being the source of it. His behavior had alarmed his sister almost immediately. Gaara wasn't, after all, the most discreet person.

His unknowing, curiosity driven obsession had turned to be way more destructive than Temari had dared think of. The lack of answers to his unspoken questions had a violent effect on him. He felt different and after a while, he realized that, but the inability to tell the reason behind the change tormented him.

The smell had been so alluring, and he made sure to breath in deep as to inspire all the scent. As he breathed out the air, he couldn't help the thought about what it would taste like and he salivated at it. He bent slightly over his unwilling victim, his tongue rolled out of his mouth and it slid slowly against the sweaty, soft skin of her cheek. It tasted like fear, and he had loved it.

The change had done something to him, it twirled his insides. It tormented him, made him relentless, unquiet, eager, hungry.

Tonight, was the night. Gaara had finally pieced together all the pieces from the puzzle. He was expected to make a move – by no one really, except himself. He demanded a response – a response to an imaginary, truthfully untaken action on behalf of his sister.

Gaara turned his head to the side, eyes narrowing – not in a threat, but in disbelief and curiosity, as if trying to understand the person who stood before him and how much power he had allowed her to hold over him.

None, really. His sister had done nothing to him, nor could she, even if she tried to. He wasn't really trying to find excuses, either. He merely, profoundly believed she had done so. She had, at least, have tried it, he imagined. With her shining, golden hair, and her always-tender voice when she talked to him – it had made him feel wild inside, almost enough to cut off her throat and rip out her vocal cords.

Once again, he traveled his hand through her shaking form, tangling his finger between the soft strand of her blonde hair. He was on top now, face to face, eye to eye, and he watched her intensely. His hand left her hair to caress the side of her face and he wondered if there could ever be any other woman as beautiful as his sister – so marvelous, of such a raw magnificence.

Temari's mere existence had been enough to trigger his inferiority complex, for she was everything he never was, nor could ever be. The moment he first noticed it, he unconsciously decided he would take everything from her, so like him, she could become nothing too, and perhaps, from it he could harvest something for himself – something to become a part of him, to replace the nobody he was.

Unlike him, she had always been perfect – in every way he could think of –, and he desired her for that.

One tug at her hair and now she had her face pushed against his. She complained silently, only a few quiet groans escaping her mouth. He licked her again, his tongue gliding over her closed lips. Gaara breathed out softly as he opened his mouth and bared his teeth to take her lower lip between them.

So soft, so plump.

He drew blood as she whined, and her body squirmed. His raspy sand held her tighter as its master delved his tongue between her lips, soaking the blood, tasting in the horror embedded in the thick, crimson liquid.

Temari cried softly, respecting his needed silence. Uncharacteristically, she didn't put up a fight, only when her body instinctive reaction acted first, but her brother still appreciated the effort. Even So, he relied on his sand too – too used to its presence when it came to trap his prey.

That's what she was now. His beautiful, golden prey.

Gaara had, in fact, preyed on her for a while after his realization. He did so all the while thinking about what he'd take from her and how he'd taunt her as he displayed it in front of her mourning eyes. It felt thrilling and empowering.

He looked down at her and watched her eyes intently. She didn't look broken – perhaps not yet, he though. She seemed scared and helpless, but that wasn't enough. At least, not enough to crush her integrity and that image of righteousness she had built for herself – and it made him angry. Angry to think that she was glorious, and he wasn't – or that she had something he didn't.

What, he wondered, made her think she was deserving of that? She wasn't, he was. It belonged to him – everything she owned, even what she had achieved. He wanted to see it all crumble on top of her, and he wanted to be the one who would make it collapse after he took control of those things.

He growled and his nails scratched at her unmarked skin, leaving red lines behind and torn skin. The fabric from her kimono teared and shattered on the floor as his sand danced through the material.

Gaara would obliterate everything she was – everything her name stood for, even. What she represented, what she symbolized. He'd destroy her honor, stain her purity, and shatter her glory.

He knew hate, and that's what burned so hot all over his body. That sole feeling was what boiled inside his freezing cold body. Now, her body felt his fury too, in such a raw, horrific way, and she screamed painfully as she trashed around in rebellion. And he drew another scream from her, again and again, each time harder, and it sounded so much like a melody to him.

Temari was thrown on the ground as soon as his sand pulled away from her, her reflex quick enough for her to lessen the impact with her hand on the floor. Gaara made his way to her, pulling her hair up until she retracted enough to stand only in her knees, with her back completely straight as he, too, stood on his knees behind her.

She screamed again, and Gaara moaned as she did so – a sound so unique that, amid pain, she found herself shocked to witness.

The pushes, the forcing hand on her back and the filthiness in the choice of words he dared pour over her brought bile to her throat, and she felt sick at every single whisper he uttered. Never had she wondered how low her little brother truly was. He humiliated her with his immorality – and he intended nothing else – not because he had to, but simply because he wanted to – to demean her, to hurt her, not only physically, but spiritually too.

His hand gripped harder on her hair and he wished to prick it from her scalp, every strand, one by one – and that too, she'd be left without. He'd treasure it if he ever did so, being appreciative of its softness in his hand.

When he finally, forcefully smashed her against the ground, she thought he was over, and he thought that too.

Only when he had the sight of her damaged form, he was sure his work was not done. Her hair was tangled, her body bruised, eyes swollen from the crying, lips covered by dried blood and cheeks marked by her fresh tears. Yet, her eyes still shinned green bright in concealed resistance – it made him want to crush her will.

And he did so, every single day.

Each day he found something new from her, something he'd later, eventually, steal. Gaara still stood strong on his desire. He'd accomplish his self-given purpose. He'd leave nothing to her; he'd make a nothing out of her.

He'd peel the soft, tender skin from her flesh and muscles, and rip the nails from her fingertips. He'd open her up completely and pry on her insides, feast on her content.

Gaara softly brushed his thumbs over her eyes in a caress, her lashes tickling the skin of his fingers. And he wanted them too. He wanted to snatch each piece from the golden lashes of her beautiful, defiant eyes – and she defied him, silently. He saw it in her eyes, he could tell just by looking at them as they met in a challenge that wasn't even there.

Soon she wouldn't be doing that anymore – not after he gouged out the eyeballs from her skull. He'd make sure he did it in the most painful way he could think of. He laughed at the thought as he resumed his ministrations – overly eager hands mishandling the damaged goods he had in his possess.

Little by little, he disassembled her parts, like a toy – a doll –, and he did so in majestic ways, ever so slowly, until she succumbed. Eventually, he broke her will as he soiled her soul and tainted her body with his gruesome sin – crafting his masterpiece as he progressed to strip her from her honor and morals.

He was conflicted, but ultimately, he had to carry his mission on – his supreme art.

The process had been fulfilling. He gradually turned his sister into someone unreliable in the eyes of Suna. The change in her psyche was inexplicable to them, and he used his position as a leader to discredit her regarding her breakdowns. Gaara had invalidated her, desecrated her image – he successfully profaned the view his people had of their ambassador, and he cherished every moment of doing so.

Gaara took from her, over and over, and the days passed, until she was left with nothing to be proud of. She was defiled, in ruins, and so he moved on to his perpetuation of destruction, to destroy her, to rebuild him – his ultimate show of madness.

He had learned to love her over the past days – every little part of her. He loved them so much, he wanted nothing but for them to live on through him.

Why make a nothing out of her when he could use her to make something for himself? Especially, now, that she looked so fragile and ready for dismantle. His morbid desire to consume her – in the very literal sense of the word – had only increased. He wanted to absorb and feel, deep inside, what it felt like to be all the greatness his sister once was, even if just a little.

And he did so.

Gaara pulled and shattered. He deformed, disfigured, crippled and dismembered, until she was left a wreckage. Then, he feasted on what was left – ripping, tearing, biting, and chewing. He destroyed her in a way only a true wicked lover would be able to.

He ravished her remains all around, painting the walls and floor with the beautiful wine that poured from her body. The blank spots on the wall where decorated with her now tattered skin and her ripped flesh spread on the ground.

Gaara turned her into a painting – of blood, flesh, and skin.

He had made her beautiful – even more than she was before –, and, had made her nothing, too. Just like him, she had nothing left.

Nothing of Temari.

Sabaku no Gaara rebuilt himself from the remains of his broken sister – a former wholesomeness of perfection.

**19/04/2020**

* * *

**What are your thoughts?**

**Author's Note:**

> I'm not sure what this is. It's up to your interpretations (if there is anything to interpret).
> 
> I know I should be working on 'I am Machine', but I had this in my mind for a long while, now.
> 
> I'll keep my progress updated in my profile.


End file.
